Chapter 25

My father's residence, I soon realize, takes up half of the third floor in the complex. Panorama windows boast an ample view of the district, with delicate green curtains and plush emerald furniture enlivening the space. Adelheid chatters away in my ear about how she chose the decor herself, and how difficult it was to pick accents that weren't too posh, weren't too luxurious. She has made the space into her own: everywhere I look are touches of rampant feminist highlights, little details here and there that scream married to my eyes. The twin sets of delicate mugs. Two placemats on the dining table. Pairs, everywhere.

How long have they been…?

Like she can read my thoughts, my father's wife waves a broad hand across the living areas, gesturing with a grandiose air. "It took your father some time to adjust to my taste in interior design, but between you and me, he enjoys the chance to flaunt his wealth again. He suffered greatly when you and your mother tied him down to Shiganshina."

I trip on the carpet as we move into the living room. "I'm sorry?"

Adelheid looks at me sympathetically, yet in it I see a fraction of the haughtiness she bore prior to finding out who I was. Sympathy, yet she still only bothers to look at me down the length of her nose. "Did your parents never tell you how they lost their fortune? Why they moved out of Stohess and all the way across Paradis to land in that meager district?"

Whether or not they did, I have no memory of it. Would it be better to admit my cluelessness, or to deny it? I wrack my brain, trying to remember what had happened. But of course I don't remember. I have only been Aliva for as long as the woman in the textbook margins has been in possession of this body, this soul. My muscles uncoil. "No."

She nods sagely. "In all honesty, I expected as much. Efa was never the kind of woman to involve a child in adult affairs."

I can't help but balk. I've lived my entire life with no more than a day's worth of memories to clue me into the kind of home I grew up in, and had all but come to terms with the fact that I would never have any more than that. "You knew my mother," I exclaim unintentionally, understanding and dread gnawing at me in unison.

Adelheid chuckles, sitting down in a high-backed parlor chair. She reaches into the drawer next to the chair and pulls out a long, thin-tipped cigar. "Of course I did. Your parents were in the process of separating when we met."

Separating. Efa and Bentham? It doesn't feel real. There was genuine love there. I can't understand—

"Surprised?" She smirks knowingly and procures a clipper and a lighter from the drawer before knocking it shut. "This is exactly what I mean. Your mother insisted you were too young to understand that your parents were going against their vows to one another. She felt it would be easier to explain once the process was finalized, but of course, your father lost his fortune before the divorce went through."

I sink into a neighboring chair and close my eyes, collecting myself, taking stock of the history I am simultaneously a part of and apart from. So around the time that I was nine, perhaps, Efa and Betham intended to leave each other. Idly, I wonder how they would have organized custody of me. "How do you know all of this, though? Were you close with them before they moved?"

If memory serves me right, our family existed in Stohess prior to the downfall of our finances. When would either of my parents have the time to grow sufficiently acquainted with a woman of Trost? I crack open my eyes just in time to watch Adelheid light the cigar and put it to her lips. Husky lilac smoke spews from her mouth as she exhales. "I was the one processing their divorce, child." There's a distinct sharpness to her tone just then, like she doesn't care to speak of that sort of thing. But she continues, despite that harsh side thinly veiled by her puckered mouth. "They had the whole thing settled cleanly. Your mother would take you, and in return, your father would provide adequate funds to ensure enough of a yearly stipend to take care of you until you were of age."

Adelheid waves her hand; the smoke follows. When I breathe it in, it does not smell like the cigars I am familiar with. As a refugee, officers often chainsmoked in the winters. Passing them and their clouds practically rooted the scent into my brain. She must have an exotic strain, or at least something too pricey to be bought on an officer's pay.

"Betham made a poor business decision at the wrong time. He invested too much in a new agricultural endeavor, and his fortune evaporated before his eyes. Because he lacked the funds to uphold his portion of the agreement, the divorce was nullified." She glances over at me, and weirdly enough, I sense pity in the corners of her eyes. "I hear it was a hard roof to share after that."

Confusion wafts my way. If I'd never come here, I would've lived the rest of my life believing wholeheartedly that Efa and Betham held nothing but the utmost respect and love for one another, based on the kindness with which they treated each other during that day in Shiganshina. To consider that they were anything but makes me uneasy. What sort of house did Aliva live in, before I became her? What would she think of this situation? Of the kind of people her parents were?

Mercifully enough, footsteps patter down the hallway towards us from the bedrooms. My father emerges, taking one look at Adelheid and her cigar and scowling. "Adel. What did I tell you about smoking?"
"Crack a window," she drawls, sending a puff whooshing his way. He swats the smoke away and stomps over.

"Those aren't for us. Don't smoke the wares." He stoops just enough to grab the ashtray off the table, holding it out for her with white knuckles. Unfazed by his rapid decline in humor, his wife carefully sets the cigar in the tray's stirrup, lamenting under her breath that it's a shame she didn't get to finish it.

I speak without thinking. "You sell cigars?"

Betham turns to look at me quickly, with the kind of face that makes me wonder if he already forgot that I was here. "No. I own the property they're made on. These are just a box of samples, as a thank you from tenant to landlord." Clearing his throat, he swipes another irritated hand in the air and strides towards the windows to crack one open. "Aliva. How long have you been breathing that secondhand?"

"Since Adelheid lit it," I respond calmly. Adelheid chimes in from my side, saying I can call her mother. I can't even be properly bewildered by her statement, not when I'm so hung up on my father's words, on Pyxis's. "Why?"

"You should step out for a while," he tells me. Or rather, commands it. "The scent lingers."

"Will I be going with you?"

"Hm? Ah, no…" he looks at Adelheid again. Just like he did not too long ago, when he mentioned some appointment he couldn't miss. "But we'll be back before nightfall. We can have dinner together then. Like a family ought to."

I rub my thumb against my ring finger. Right.

Adelheid and Betham reconvene, walking arm in arm towards the door. "I've finished tidying up your room. It's the one down the hall on the left. You're welcome to stay there until we return, or you can go outside for some fresh air…"

"Got it. Thank you."

For a brief moment, as he hesitates at the door, I sense real reluctance to leave. Adelheid leans around him to wave. "Bye for now, honey! Nice meeting you."

I nod. That's about all I think I'm capable of doing without throwing up in my mouth.

After they've left, I find myself investigating the place with an obtrusiveness I lacked earlier. I creep into the kitchen, opening every drawer and peering into every cabinet. I see fine dining utensils, blatantly expensive dinner sets, minimal pots and pans. A modest selection of lemon-scented cleaning supplies stand guard beneath the sink. I doubt the two of them have cooked many meals from scratch here.

I prowl back to the living room, inspecting the furniture closely. The chair Adelheid sat in seems to have garnered the most use, that sticky-sweet scent permeating the cushions. It's especially poignant from the table's ashtray, where the remnants of the cigar have been left to smolder. The cherry still flickers with heat, burning a dignified death. I glance once at the door before bending down and opening the drawer Adelheid grabbed the cigar from. There's about half a dozen full cigars left in the drawer, carefully displayed in an open box with a missing top. I pry the box out to study the label on it. Retreating to my pack propped up against the chair I sat in, I dig out the pages of my textbook I'd ripped out before surrendering it at camp. Every word in that curious script I can still partially read stares back at me, speaking of pasts and futures I both deny and dread. I run around the house until I locate a writing utensil, pairing it with a page that has a decently large amount of blank space left. I set the paper against the box's printed logo and quickly scratch over it, imprinting the design into the page so that I can save it for later. Satisfied with my work, I return the cigar box to the drawer and clamp the thing shut.

For a moment, things are quiet. I glance back at the cigar, debating, waiting for my brain to dissuade me from doing something stupid. I reach for it and tentatively put it to my lips, inhaling slowly. The sensation of smoke puffing up into my lungs is alien. It's only been a short while since I collapsed because I couldn't breathe; now, I'm coughing abruptly because I made an impulsive decision to try the thing out. "Really, Aliva?" I shove the cigar back into the stirrup and wipe my lips, another sputtering cough slipping out. "Genius. Absolutely stunning intellectual move there."

I escape the presence of Adelheid's smoking chair and snoop down the hall, opening up door after door until I find something resembling an office. The desk looks hastily cleared off; I can't help but laugh. Of course Betham wouldn't insist on heading upstairs to personally tidy up the room I'm to stay in. I pick up a few important-looking documents and freeze.

I double over laughing.

I can't read. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How the fuck am I supposed to determine whether or not my father is involved in the coderoin trade if I can't even read the papers in the office?

I set them back as they were and groan. Okay, change of plans. I need to finish learning how to read. I have some bare-bones knowledge from Bertholdt and Armin, thank goodness, but nothing close to what I'll need in order to decipher what documents could be incriminating and which are just flush with innocent business jargon.

Six months. That's how much time Pyxis gave me to complete this assignment. That's the grace period, the freeze frame through which I can act liminally and beyond the bounds of both soldierdom and daughterhood. Once that window passes I will be Aliva Moreau, Betham's daughter and Adelheid's stepdaughter. I will be nothing once more.

I grab my pack from the living room and follow Betham's instructions to my room. It's painfully obvious that the furnishings in here are those for a guest with no intentions to stay beyond a few days at most. I throw the bag onto the bed, peering into the empty closet and hollow vanity. I'll have to expand my wardrobe if I'm to stay here for longer than a guest would.

My head feels stuffy. I crack open the window in my room and scuttle downstairs, abandoning the building and letting myself roam aimlessly down the street. I note landmarks as I pass, pocketing the layout of my temporary residence in the back of my head so that I can navigate it more adequately. All the while I wrack my brain for options, for solutions. I could steal everything I can get my hands on and surrender it to the garrison at the meadery. Let them read through it all and decide if he's innocent or not. It's the quickest avenue for me, but Pyxis's instructions mean that regardless of when I go to meet them I'll have to wait a day until the garrison actually shows up: meaning I'd either need to possess the documents for a full day without my father noticing their absence, or I would have to time it so that I can retrieve them on the day of the reservation without fail. The thought of leaving everything up to chance doesn't particularly put me at ease.

My other option, then, is to stay here and coax Betham into hiring me a literacy tutor. Something significant enough to teach me higher-grade comprehension with a business emphasis. If Armin's words are true, then the Aliva of the past would've known how to read to some extent. Whether or not my present abilities are greater or lesser than that doesn't particularly matter, so long as he can be convinced to bring someone in for my sake. The question is less of the feasibility of my tutoring, and more of the mind of my father. Is he a parent in name, or one in heart? The fact that he granted me a place to stay upon receiving Shadis's letter gives me hope, but Adelheid's story has diminished it.

Not to mention the sheer reversal of everything I thought I knew. Now I find myself with a thousand questions: how long did he wait until he remarried? Why Trost, not Stohess? Who was Adelheid to him before all of this? Did he ever try to find Mother and I?

"...va.

"...Aliva.

"Hey. Aliva." I jolt, the world crashing down around me as I return to the present. I've no clue where I've walked to. The sounds of the street are livelier here, market-like. It's more crowded, too. Enough so that I almost don't recognize the two people standing before me until the one on the left scowls in that unmistakable way of his. "Quit spacing out," Eren scolds.

Next to him, Mikasa's face warps, akin now to concern. It reminds me of the face I saw her display in that dream-state I was in, watching her declare my need for resuscitation. "Are you well?"

"I am," I say immediately, gearing up to thank her, "I wanted to–"

"Wait." Eren steps forward, way into my personal space, and I go to take a step back on instinct. Before I can his hand lashes out, seizing my upper arm in his grip. He shoves his face in front of mine.

Mikasa looks alarmed. "Eren–"

"What are you–"

"You've been drinking. And smoking."

I wince. "It's not like that."

Eren lets go of me, practically pushing me as he frees his hand from my person. "Like hell it is. Are you stupid?"

I scowl. "Whether or not I am is none of your business."

Mikasa clamps a hand on Eren's shoulder, like she can sense a fight brewing. He doesn't push her away. Not like he did with me. "If I'd known you would turn out like this, I would've left you there to–"

"Eren." Mikasa's tone isn't that of a childhood companion, but that of an Ackerman. She utilizes her full height just then, her blades catching in the sunset light and gleaming with a menacing air. I lament the fact that I don't remember what kind of friendship Mikasa and I had during the year we spent in Shiganshina together, but I at least know what we had during the year when we were both trainees. I think back to the night we returned from cliff climbing, when she stayed in that uncomfortable wagon until I woke up just so I could sleep with my head against her shoulder. Mikasa, whose kindness is as subtle as a spring breeze and as earnest as daybreak.

For a while, neither of them say anything. Eren, at least, does not attack me with his words like he was doing. Curiosity bubbles up within me. It may very well be a long time until I see the two of them again: what better time to lay my confusion to rest than now? "Why'd you do it, Eren? Mikasa was the one who brought it up. Surely, she could have resuscitated me in Reiner's stead."

Eren stays silent for a moment, like he's carefully debating his answer, so I watch Mikasa instead. All her focus is riveted on him. I have the sneaking suspicion that she aches for his answer just as much as I do.

Softly, enough so that I'm forced to lean in to hear, Eren mutters under his breath. "She didn't, though. She hesitated too."

Mikasa's eyes are downcast now. But can I blame her? In that kind of situation, encountering it for the first time before, who would have the gall to act with surety? "I helped Doctor Yeager hold down patients all the time. But never…"

What need for her involvement would he have when handling an unconscious patient?

That doesn't explain why Eren stepped forward. It doesn't, and it does, and I'm frustrated that I crave a greater answer. What more do I want him to say? What pardon do I seek from his tongue, what validation for living?

I freeze. "Eren. You could've let me go. To atone for Carla's death."

He flinches. He knows. "The only one who can decide when you atone is me. Your life is in my hands. No one else's."

Is that fair? It shouldn't put me at ease to hear him say that, but for some reason, it does. I smile. "Okay."

"That means no more doing whatever the fuck this is," he continues, motioning to my whole body. "Don't run with those kinds of crowds."

"Okay, okay." Is it weird that I see Carla in him right now?

"Be well, Aliva," Mikasa says. My heart is warm, fluttery. I see Carla in her too.

"I will."

A/N: Another day, another chapter...